Time Marches On
by Angelinhel
Summary: Who doesn't love a high school reunion?


Time Marches On

Lawndale High hadn't changed in ten years. It was still the same nondescript, squat brick building, churning out the next batch of worker drones.

She stood off to one side, out of the circle of light cast by the open entry door. Faint music could be heard from within, along with the low hum of idle small talk, shouted over the greatest hits of the nineties. She should go in, but she wasn't ready. It had taken almost fifteen minutes for her to decide to get out of the car and walk that far.

Couples walked in, some people she recognized, some she didn't. She still didn't know why she'd come. She hadn't had anything to say to these people _during _high school, much less ten years after graduation. They had nothing in common and she knew it. When she'd gotten the invitation, her first instinct had been to toss it in the trash, and she had. She'd fished it out a few minutes later, dusting off the damp coffee grounds. A few days later during her monthly call to her mother, it was her mother's bright voice saying how much her father would be happy to see her that was what had convinced her to make the trip. That was what she told herself anyway. She did miss her family.

Inside the building, she knew people she'd graduated with were comparing lives, checking in, making judgments as they always did. Cliques and status perpetuated far beyond high school. She only wished she had paid more attention, had made even a tiny effort to understand, if not fit in. She still hated the system but had long ago realized whether it was right or not, it was how the world worked. And she had never figured out how to work with it.

Taking a deep breath, she made her way to the door. She'd made it through years at this school, she could make it through a few more hours. Back then, she'd known what they thought of her and accepted it, even embraced it. She was prepared for the questions, the silent judging of her life and her worth.

Once inside, the low hum became a dull roar. A woman she didn't recognize gave her a generic smile as she claimed her name tag. She vaguely remembered the girl, they'd had a few classes together, but had never really spoken. Prepared for the inevitable, she made her way into the gym.

Like many others, she went straight for the bar. Wine in hand, she felt marginally braver and scanned the room for a familiar face. The one she'd desperately hoped to see, the real reason she'd come, was not there. Their name tag still sat on the welcome table. Faces turned toward her as she passed, some flickering with recognition, some not. A few "How have you been?"s passed her way, but the speakers quickly turned back to their companions, their inquiries polite, not interested.

She sat by herself at an empty table, watching the people swirl by, catching bits of conversations. Charles Ruttheimer the Third strolled by, a vacant-looking blonde on one arm. Obviously he'd walked right into his father's shoes, and surprisingly, into his own fantasy. A snippet she'd overheard told her this was wife number three. She wasn't sure if women eventually figured out his money wasn't worth his personality, or if he thought of women like others thought of leasing cars. Probably a bit of both. Even so, he seemed, if not happy, satisfied. She imagined his life was going just like he expected it to.

Another overheard conversation revealed why the one person she'd fully expected to see was not there. Jodie Landon was too busy in D.C., moving up the ranks of some political office. That surprised no one. Just a year out of law school and she'd jumped right in. Idly she swirled her wine and hoped Jodie had enjoyed Turner for a few years before bending back into the all-work personality she'd been broken and forced into. She'd deserved that much. But Jodie had gone far, done exactly what she said she would, and probably had convinced herself long ago it was what she really wanted.

She listened to the songs the DJ played, reminded of old high school dances, or rather the only one she had attended. Again, she looked around for a particular face, knowing it wouldn't be there. People passed, but no one stopped to speak to her. A twinge of regret made her wonder how much of it was her fault, she understood now how much of her alienation was her own doing. Still, she didn't have to courage to initiate a conversation. She didn't want to compare lives.

Across the room she saw Kevin. She shook her head and gave in to a smile. Her mother had told her he'd finally gotten a GED, having failed again the year after she'd graduated. Without grades, and if everyone where honest, at most a mediocre football player, he hadn't gone far. She watched the mousy-looking woman next to him. Short, brown hair, cut in an imitation of a Hollywood actress, she was passably pretty, and probably not much brighter than her husband. Without college or football to fall back on, Kevin went to work for his dad as a contractor. Without his title of "QB", he'd lost his artificial arrogance and become a friendly, easygoing man. Likable. She was pretty sure they had kids, too. It was a small life. A simple one. She envied him.

It felt wrong to see Kevin without Brittany. Her smile faded. In her second year in college, her mother had mentioned the car accident in passing. Brittany and three other cheerleaders had died in a drunk driving accident. She didn't know the details, at the time she hadn't really cared enough to ask. It made her sad now.

There were few of her teachers there, many had retired since she graduated. Ms. Li had left the previous year. She saw the art teacher over in one corner, chatting with Mr. O'Neil. They both looked exactly the same, save a few lines and gray hairs. Mr. O'Neil caught her eye and waved. Excusing himself, he made his way to where she sat.

Her heart sped up, after almost an hour of sitting by herself, she might actually have to speak. It frightened her.

"Daria!" He sat across from her. "How wonderful to see you here! How are you?"

For once, she sensed he actually did want to hear how she was, hear more than just the scripted, 'Fine.' that allowed one to move on to more interesting conversations. She hesitated.

"What are you doing now? Journalism? Novels? I remember you had such a _passion _for writing, and such a," he paused, looking for the right word, "an _interesting _view of the world."

Looking into his face, she lost her nerve. How could she tell him after college, with a fresh new English degree and a handful of journalism classes, she'd tried to break into writing in some form or another. She'd gone from job to job, from copy editing to freelance, working in marketing and PR. Her resume was long. The economy was unstable and she'd been laid off more times than she could count. Or fired, really. She admitted that now. She was always the first to be let go. More than a few times, when she'd been looking for a new job, she'd see her old one posted. It didn't take long to figure it out. She wasn't fired because her work was poor, she was fired because no one liked her.

The one job she'd held for more than a year had stated it, if in a roundabout way. "Does not play well with others" was how the schools worded it. "Needs to work on team building skills." was how the workplace did. She had never connected well with other people. Not as a child, not in college, and not in the real world. Not since Jane.

The sarcastic comments that had amused her best friend had insulted her roommate. Her cynical retorts had alienated her coworkers. No one seemed to understand her sense of humor or her personality. In high school, everyone was still figuring themselves out and part of that was reacting to and interacting with others. In the real world, most people knew who they were. She sensed most people thought she was too much work to be worth getting to know. As an adult, she quickly realized how important first impressions really were. And hers were always bad. She didn't know how to to be perky, and after the first few failed attempts, gave up trying. No one wanted to make an effort to befriend the dour, quiet, new girl. Her hard work was all that got her in the door, her gloomy personality failed to keep here there.

She spied Kevin again, smiling his perpetual goofy grin. Tommy Sherman was right. She _was _the Misery Chick.

"I'm...good," Daria started. "I only do a bit of writing on the side, as a hobby." That was a lie.

She didn't want to admit the only job she'd managed to keep was as a 'data entry analyist' in a cube farm. It was boring, easy and required very little interaction with other people. It didn't pay well, but she had her tiny one-bedroom apartment, a used car that ran well, and she paid her bills in full. She didn't have any pets or kids to worry about, and talked to her mother once a month.

"I see your father pretty often." O'Neil smiled at her. "He's very proud of his girls."

By 'girls' Daria assumed he meant Quinn. With a shiny new fashion degree, Quinn had predictably run off to New York. She had failed spectacularly at joining the glamorous world of design and modeling, but she worked in a trendy uptown clothing boutique, rented a rat-hole two bedroom in Queens with a friend, was in a semi-stable relationship, and loved every second of it. Daria wished she could hate her.

Her father had long ago retired and left the bread winning to his wife. Following the death of both the elder Schrecter and Jim Vitale, she'd finally been made partner. Her dad drove a school bus during the academic year, dropping the elementary kids off in the morning, playing a round of golf, and picking them up in the afternoon. It gave him something to do, and Jake had always liked kids.

"I'll tell him you said hello." Daria tried to smile.

"Well it was was good to see you, Daria. I'm glad to hear you're doing so well." O'Neil smiled and stood up.

Daria's smile back was empty, wondering how he had gleaned 'doing so well' out of anything she'd said, but she knew he was just being polite. As she watched his retreating back, she stood up to leave. She didn't belong here any more than she had in high school. Perhaps even less so now. Around her people she'd known told each other about their lives- careers, kids, vacations. She had nothing in common with them. They all lived their lives: some flashy, some simple, some brilliant, and some small- all moving forward.

She did not live. She merely existed.


End file.
